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Galaxian's Scribbles
__TOC__ 'Day 1 / September 8 / Birthplace' A/N: A sneak preview of the prologue of AtRtR, All the Reasons to Lie. Enjoy. '' Rai— '' They often think of a person’s origin as a place of nostalgia—somewhere they were forced to leave because of life, but strive to return to as soon as they find or, best of all, fulfill their goals in life. I would have liked to think so as well, but life has forced me unto this path, and if there’s anything that I try not to do, it is to look back. What good will looking back do for me? They say that everyone has their own story that they write, but I have been written by my story, and it is a tale I do not want to recall. But, perhaps, one day someone will find this, and will know why I have chosen to do everything I have and will do, and why I am the person I am. I am…a lie. Perhaps I would have never been this way, but a bird who cannot fly above the world will die. So will I, if I don’t keep above everything and everyone. I have nothing more to lose, because I already lost everything. Oh…where was I? Ah, yes. I have yet to pin down my courage to write about myself completely, because I know I will have to write it somewhere else, where it will only be found once I reach my downfall, which is only death. What better way to start off a tale that will only be revealed after my death…by reading about my birth? Isn’t that what people nowadays like? Action? Drama? Irony? The twist a rebel took from a law-abiding citizen to a ‘valiant’ protestor of the highest governmental system? If you are such a person, then take no offense as I say that I have never seen the point of all of that. Pardon the rudeness, but to be fully honest, I would give anything to be normal. In fact, I would give everything I have now, which is not much, to just be whom I once was before. Of course, you would never understand, would you? I hope that if you follow the next part, then you will at least be able to see where I’m coming from. Enough banter. I suppose you came here to see the start of my autobiography, anyways. I was born lucky, into a happy family. Yes, it sounds very cliché, but it’s true—I couldn’t have asked for more. Birth is purely luck, they say, and I practically struck the jackpot. I didn’t need a wealthy, powerful, influential one for my happiness, but it was a plus that both my mother and father worked for a government. Or perhaps, the government. The Color System is the government, but one of the largest branches of it in the world was located in my birthplace. Well, I should say the country as a whole. I only lived in one of the smaller cities, and it was barely able to be counted as a city, anyways. I wasn’t really a city kid; I was more of a town kid, and it was because Gelling was such a town-like urban location. I was the oldest kid in a family of four, which was comprised of my mother, father, and my ototo, my younger brother. My mother and father were often away for meetings, conferences, and general governmental agency tasks related to their work, but they dedicated all the remaining time to us. Anyhow, they trusted us to take care of ourselves for the most part, even if that meant roaming around the city together. I was seen as much older than I was then—which was nine—and that provided some handy transportation capabilities. Gelling seemed so large to us then, which goes with the phrase “Your world grows as you grow up”, I suppose, unless I’m making that phrase up. There seemed to be endless routes we could take, so as soon as we were done with our assignments, homework or chores, we would look at the time and practically sprint to whatever transportation alternative was the closest. That is, if the bus time was around then, we would take that, and transfer to light rail, which was the most convenient way of transportation, but was sometimes the environment inside the traveling means was quite nasty…if you get what I mean. Otherwise, if a responsible adult who just so happened to be heading the same way, and also happened to run into us (not literally, of course), we would ask them to take the taxi with us, but because we didn’t run around the apartments hollering and demanding adult companionship, it was more a matter of luck than convenience. However, both of these ways that I mentioned were obviously pretty inconvenient, and so we took the most convenient way to us, or so it seemed—on foot. Our city was renowned for its safety, whether that be in safe driving, or practically non-existent crime rates. The sidewalks and roads were always paved, and there were always watchful eyes everywhere, physically or through security cameras. So, my brother and I always raced each other around the corners, only stopping and holding hands at the stoplights. We always felt we could run forever, and there was so much to see, and so many places to be. We had gone around all the restaurants and neighborhoods in the city, and both of us could map out the city by heart. My brother’s favorite place was the candy, sweets, and ice cream store, all in one, with a small kiddie park near it. We called it Kid’s Paradise, or I should say, I came up with it. I never minded sitting at the side, on one of the benches, like one of our parents instead of his brother, while he ran around, chasing the pigeons on the corner, shrieking down the slide, or jumping up and down waiting for the sweets line to dwindle down to his spot. My favorite place, on the other hand, was the public library. It was all the way on the other side of the city, but it was there I learned to appreciate, with the computers and devices there, what technology could bring for the world, and for me. Regardless, I also loved the books and literature there. My little ototo did not share my appreciation for the library at first, but after we bargained that we would take turns visiting our favorite places each week, he had to deal with it, and I think that, even if he never really admitted it, he also came to like it. But, good comes with bad, and each time we went to the other side of the town, we were met with a grim reminder of what laid beyond our small world on the way. Splat in the middle of the city was the cemetery, each side of the rows outlined with some splash of color. The graves in the row of the red paint were the largest, almost shining, like they were medals instead of symbols of the deceased, very dispersed and decorated with heavenly flowers. Meanwhile, ragged mounds of dirt littered the other side of purple paint, barren and empty; no one even bothered to search for whom was whom anymore. We could agree that was our least favorite spot in the city. Of course, we had our curiosities, too, but generally, we turned to look the other way, because—even though we never told this to anyone else—we knew our ancestors were somewhere in there, in the ragged pieces of wood that were supposed to be marked with their names. Purple Sashes having once been part of our family was shameful, and so we had to pretend they had never existed, so the family did not get shamed along with them. We were taught to never shame our family like they did; we were supposed to never end up near them in that cemetery we so despised. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I will do anything in my power to make sure those underneath the ragged pieces of wood are just the same as those under the fancy marble tombstones, until the Color System is the mound of ash. But, when I die, no one will know my real name. If I have a grave, it will be ransacked, because I will be a criminal in some eyes; or maybe it’ll just be a mound of ash, left to blow away in the first gust of wind. Maybe my ghost is meant to be lost in history, another person who tried to make change. But I will not give up without a fight. At the very least, at least I will not be where I thought I had belonged. At least I’ll be a phantom who tried to make sure that the scars my birthplace left me will not be the same for others. At the very least, I don’t want birthplaces to be a place of tribulation, like mine is to me. I at least want others to remember their childhood paradises without thinking about their life twisted like a burnt pretzel, out of everything they could have speculated. I don’t want them to be like me. 'Day 2 / September 9 / Snowflakes' (A/N: When today's a B-Day and there's too much homework hhhhh, sorry for lack of quality) He was usually accustomed to solitude, yet he found himself looking up at the sky with his icy eyes, watching tiny pieces of white distinguish themselves from the thick, foggy blanket draped across the heavens. It was marvelous, really, how each one of them retained its individuality and beauty. They were all bound to fall apart at the end, but until then, they fluttered down, basking in their moments of glory. He thrust a gloved hand out, sending nearby snowflakes dancing, making sure the temperature around his palm was enough to preserve the snowflakes for a small while. The crystals settled on his hand, a temporary recluse, their edges sparkling and glistening with the light the world offered to them. One of his favorite scenes was in front of him. He stood in place, letting the wind brush by his cheeks, his hair blowing across his face, gradually dyed by piece and piece of snow. A bit even caught on his lashes, and they stuck together, as if they held hands by their ends. In all of it, besides the tune of the gales, was the melody of tranquility and silence. Snowflakes, flowers that bloomed distinctly and ultimately left behind their final glory together. They would cover these lands with a canvas of impeccable white, until the time came that they would melt, flooding back to where they had come from, until the cycle started anew. Individual gemstones falling, together, from the sky, leaving their gift for the world, together. He couldn’t stand and only watch them. His footsteps would be an imperfection to the masterpiece they left behind. His stride quickening, lengthening, he started running, his footsteps as light as the feathers and what the heavens let fall, leaving those imperfections behind and letting them become covered again. He finally slowed down at the familiar sight of a comfortable residence decorated with icicles, and nothing else, except just the natural beauty of the world. A figure stood in the lighted doorway, barely holding the door open, as if he were afraid he would accidentally keep all the snowflakes at bay, but the other’s smile was like the light of the world. He was never alone. A smile gracing his lips, Firas ran forward to greet his best friend. 'Day 3 / September 10 / Battlefront' (A/N: I suffered from split character syndrome, in which the base character and the character I was writing the POV from started having conflicts in personality. It might be a bit weird because of that.) The sound of screaming filled his ears, a call for bloodshed and violence. Absolutely nothing had changed from his first battle, when he was in the middle of the ranks, on foot. Training to adapt the first rule of war: That in this world, in the battlefield, it was kill or be killed. From that point on, there was no more hesitation, there was no humanity in the enemy’s heart, and there was no fairness. Most of all, there would be no peace. Why were they at war again? Why couldn’t everyone just retain their childhood and innocence? He remembered his days before the war fondly, where he could watch his younger brother run around and play with the other kids. Sometimes there was squabbles, altercations, or even all-out fights with magic, but at least the most damage there ever was done was a damaged ego and possibly a broken nose. Not this. Not death. 'Day 4 / September 11 / Remember' "Please remember", A silent message, A goal. We change something to change the world. Still others once did what we do now, Effort after effort, compiling into what we have now, And one day we will shape the world as well. Some were written in history, Some forgotten, Some lost along the way. Remember, There were those before you, Who paved the road you walk now, And you are changing yourself for yourself, And for the world. Remember, That it wasn't only those who were written that we owe something to, But also those who were there but now are not. And one day, we give back what we can, Another loan for the future to pay back in time. 'Day 5 / September 12 / Wings' He was thinking about her again, as he patrolled the area for threats. Sometimes, Hitan missed flying with Helen, like they did when they were younger, but he'd come to mostly dismiss it, and tell himself it was for the better. His eyesight was, in general, better; he had more experience with fighting; furthermore, there weren't so many strange things that happened. If the Hunters tried to kill, they tried to kill. There were no strange moments of hesitation. And if it was only him, if the demon showed up again, it wouldn't have someone to try to hurt, in order to hurt him mentally. Still, they both did enjoy flying. As the wind blew on his face and ruffled his hair, he wondered how it'd be like if she were next to him. Maybe they would have some time to talk, rather than what they'd been doing--running, stopping sometimes, more running. Never much time to really talk about anything other than danger. He hadn't even been able to try to persuade her to read To Kill a Mockingbird, which reminded him of them. On a note, it was kind of strange to talk in the air, but also strangely settling. No one else would be able to listen on and hear them. Besides, the wind sometimes tended to feel like it took the words right out of one's mouth; he'd always found his words and phrases to be more eloquent while flying. And, besides, the wind changing his appearance ever-so-slightly gave him a carefree feeling, so unlike the urbane persona he had adapted over time. Sometimes he worried about what she thought about him. He wondered if she was bored of him, and would leave him one day. Maybe she didn't want him back in her life, and he'd showed up, uninvited. Maybe he should have stayed dead. Even after he had been revived that time, he had pondered what kind of man she had taken to be her new companion. He sometimes even thought they were closer when they were younger. While they had been apart two years or so, Helen hadn't really changed. Had he? What did she think about his formality? Did she know it was only a mask to other people, so they could try to lessen the amount of danger and hostility they were exposed to outside of their assailants...no, that she was exposed to? Hitan had always been afraid of others hurting him, because he knew he would hurt them back. He could become what he feared. Did she know that? He had always wanted to protect her, as a friend, and as... And as... His cheeks flushed with a deep pink blush, and he was thankful no one was next to him. Somewhere along the road, he'd developed feelings for her, not just as a friend. He'd always been content with staying by her side for as long as he needed to, but now, he not only needed to, but also, he wanted to. He wasn't sure if she wanted or even needed for him to do that, but he was content with staying by her side, even if she didn't return the feelings, he realized. Honesty came with flying in the air, apparently. Maybe after everything bad was over, perhaps they could soar with wings together; then, maybe he could finally profess his thoughts. He'd never have a chance otherwise. He'd never been all that straightforward with this feelings. Hitan smiled slightly, and then looked ahead once again, his angelic wings beating as he neared what seemed to be the horizon. 'Day 6 / September 13 / Waves' Hesitant, doubtful, the deity walked towards the end of the shore. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the water, but the fact that he could never touch it. It was as if the waves cowered away from him, but then, he could understand. No one should approach him. He was some strange entity who had lost his memories again. He had forgotten whom had hurt him, whom he had hurt, whom had loved him, and whom he had loved. But, he wanted those memories back. He wanted what had been lost. A chunk of his heart was missing, and he wanted it back, whatever it might be. No, not just what had been lost a while ago. He wanted more. He wanted who he was. He wasn’t going to live in futility. Whoever he had been, he wanted to accept it. He wanted to become who he had been. He didn’t want to start over, force a rewind on himself, until the next time he had to repeat this cycle all over again. He wanted to find a way to make it stop. Somewhere out there, in the endless sea, were the answers he sought. The deity bent down, scarlet eyes reflecting light into the darkness of the water, and gently deposited a simple thing cupped into his hand, into the water. It was no physical thing. It was not a bottle, nor a slip of paper. It was a wish to be heard throughout the ocean of existence, because he knew someone would stand near that shoreline, and they would hear him. They would seek him out, and they would give him the answers he sought in turn. He hoped. The waves washed out into the night, leaving behind shadows stretched across the sandy dunes. 'Day 7 / September 14 / Power' If you think about it, power and corruption is a cycle. People ask, “Does power corrupt, or do the corrupted come to power?” If someone were to ask me, which no one has—yet—then I have my answer. My answer is, “Both.” Starting off, we are obviously human, or so I would presume of you. Do pardon me if it’s another case, but the point is the same—there are creatures with lesser power than us. Even as a toddler, we had power of some sort. We could cry and demand of things to be given to us, though I suppose that this case is kind of strange, since our parents and guardians would have more hold over that than ourselves. Well, as a better example…think of that first ant you ever saw on the sidewalk, or at least recall seeing. Even as a kid, we dominated it in size, and there’s that decision of whether to watch it, leave it well alone, or worse, step on it. What’s the harm in that, right? It’s not like ants take revenge for their comrades’ death, not that our infant minds would ever think about the prospect. Besides, maybe even the look of it being squashed to a dissected pulp on the ground was more interesting to you than watching it go around carrying scraps of food to the rest of its colony. It’s because we have the power of simply deciding, specifically deciding its fate, and with the power of having no current consequences that we can see; that factor that ensures that reckless decisions are reached. Tell me, have you ever thought about how much more that little ant you could have stepped on could have done in the rest of its days, or its family, or what it could have done for its colony, even if you didn’t step on it and left it alone? With your power of deciding to leave it alone, you made a difference, right? It continued to fulfill its potential to itself and its society. And if you decided to step on it? Then, congratulations, you literally stepped on all that potential like it didn’t matter. Now, for humans…the only beings who continue to harm and hurt each other purposefully, for no other reason than just because we are humans. A wolf hunts an innocent lamb, and a shark devours a fish, but only because they must do so to survive. If there were a disaster and they were put on a safe place together, they would not kill each other until the crisis were over. We call ourselves more intelligent than other creatures, but in this aspect, what does the fact of us skipping over such necessities show? Why would a human step on that ant that did nothing but just exist? That ant could be likened to something else—no, someone else. Another human. How about the government and the people? The government is obviously more powerful than its citizens, even if the citizens seem to be more mass in number. While the decisions are a bit different at first, if the government were to attack the citizens, nothing we could do would ever be able to stop them. They have the police, the citizens’ money, weapons, artillery, nuclear equipment, information, and more we may not even know about. So to say, every successful rebellion against the government would be either because the government was weakened to the point where the people were superior, there were parts of the government supporting the outside, or the government wasn’t fighting much to begin with. Those are the differences in power. But, if a government is powerful, supported, yet corrupted, is there anything the people can do to stop them? We are, after all, only ants. What can we do against a force threatening to subjugate us? Is it impossible to bring down such a government? Besides, if the protestors do succeed, then how can we ensure the power we obtain from toppling the powerful does not corrupt, and we will not become that person squashing the ant for no reason, other than existence? Because, until then, there is no way of determining if what we’re doing is the best, or if it’s just to lead to another bout in the cycle of corruption. After all, the protestors, the Black Sashes, are already corrupted. The Colorless will be in the clutches of corruption soon. Then, perhaps, the only way anyone can do anything…is to take matters into his own hands. But what can he do? After all, he is ultimately only a speck in the world… 'Day 8 / September 15 / Elves' 'Day 9 / September 16 / Mystery' (( A/N: Warning for violence, descriptions of an assassination, and possibly graphical descriptions. )) They didn’t know them. They did not know them. They would never know them, for they did not want to be known. And so, it would stay that way, for eternity, who can tell? There were moments where the A.A. wished that maybe others would know them, but most of those people ended up dead. They needed to be that way, and stay that way. People who knew them would be cursed, anyways. They were still better off, shortly, dead. Take the people who ordered them on this mission, for one. They spun the gun in their hand, purely from reflex, as where they were was completely dark. They stopped it with an angle on the hilt, a finger a mere millimeter from the trigger. Such elegant weapons, yet at the same time, so cumbersome. They would have preferred more efficient methods, but there could be no mistake. One mistake would equal death for an assassin. They couldn’t afford that. Of all other punishments they could take, they could not undertake death. They had checked the gun beforehand, and they didn’t need a silencer. Everyone else was dead except their target, so no one could possibly hear them. They didn’t sense anyone nearby, either, within hearing distance. They could only hear the sound of papers shifting restlessly, as if from the wind. An open window, perhaps. After all, this was the tallest floor in the narrow skyscraper; perhaps mortals had a liking to open windows on high altitudes. They aimed the gun, but the target, the man…wasn’t there. The assassin immediately plunged backwards, just in time for the ground where they had been to fall. They were still silent, however; the only sound that could be heard was the resounding clang of another cage that fell before where they had been again, for they had retreated a bit more in the nick of time…and the sound of a man heavily breathing, as if clicking a remote control had been the most tedious work. The assassin buried themselves in shadow as they leaned against the wall, listening to the footsteps from where the man had managed to hide in. Click, clack. Click, clack. Just from that, they knew he was wearing expensive shoes with heels. He was a nervous man who valued his own safety very much, likely over those around him and even those protecting him, and he had greater instincts than most of the A.A.’s targets. Then he stopped at the edge of the temporary ravine, staring down into it. The A.A. took all of it into their eyes. An assassin wasn’t supposed to see their target as a human, but they always did. It made it easier for them, not the other way around, because they could see through the humanity. In that instant, they could see the bitterness of emotion on the man’s eyes—fear, determination, a bit of triumph that he had captured someone who tried to kill him. Oh, perhaps he didn’t know about those out there yet, or perhaps he did. Regardless, he did not think about the Why, and Who. He just thought—and thought he knew—that he had overcome something that tried to scar him, eliminate him even. He did not think about the reasons that both minorities and majorities sought his blood for: The deals he had made in the underworld for his own benefit, the people he’d dragged into his affairs, his gains that were all for power, and his luxury when the citizens were still impoverished and starving. He stood in triumph. His head only went through the triumphant thoughts of I’m alive. I won. It was a chess board that he thought he had nailed the checkmate upon. He had not. He had lost, for his soon-to-be-killer had slipped through the grasps of the cage, dodged the traps he had set up, and seen his idiocy to the end: The arrogant man hadn’t even bothered to carry a weapon for self-defense at the very least, not to say to fight back at all. What a fool. And then it was there, through the cages that were supposed to hold in the assassin and not the victim, but in which the situation had somehow been impossibly reversed, their gazes met for a split instant. They were the perpetrator and the victim, the perpetrator and the perpetrator, the killer of the perpetrator, the killer of the killer, but which one was which did not matter anymore. They allowed that one glimpse out of the mysterious—for the eyes that were so prideful instants ago to slip from their gaze, and to rove over their form, over the shadow that they were; over the night black of their mask; until they finally returned to the pale, baleful orbs obscuring their true eyes, the same color as the bloodshed they witnessed at their own hands. His lips parted, trembling, for an instant. His hands shook, even though his mind couldn’t fathom the impossible, because his mind had understood the meaning of fear. Try as he might to form a plea, the words shriveled away on his tongue. He, as all did before their death, understood the utter feeling of helplessness: Death. But as they looked into those fearful, pleading, yet desolate eyes, the A.A. felt no hesitation, and no twinge of pity. All creatures feared death, and that included monsters. There were no differences to such beings, like the one cowering before them. They were not humans in that instant. They were merely alive, and they were to face their greatest fear. In that instant as they were forced to do so, perhaps their humanity would spark; they would perhaps see this as a consequence for what they had done. They wanted to be forgiven. This was retribution for all they had done. Yet, there was still that bit of humanity in such monsters. It was to that fragment of what they were supposed to be that the Apologetic Assassin uttered: “I’m sorry.” Then a gunshot rang out, and the world was still. 'Day 10 / September 17 / Crucible' TBA 'Day 11 / September 18 / Shattered' The feeble wish pounded on his skull, shards of polished glass, until the words dented him, both chipping away, and then finally, one crumbled, and it was he who crumbled. The glass had fallen, at first unharmed, but now shattered as well. 'Day 12 / September 19 / Defenestration' Wouldn't it be great if Galaxian could get to drafting these in time and submitting in time? What if he could throw his Troubles out the window???? 'Day 13 / September 20 / Juggernaut' TBA 'Day 14 / September 21 / Heal' 'Day 15 / September 22 / Dictator' 'Day 16 / September 23 / Hope' 'Day 17 / September 24 / Revolution' 'Day 18 / September 25 / Beginning' 'Day 19 / September 26 / Wunderkind' ALL WIP 'Day 20 / September 27 / Underdog' 'Day 21 / September 28 / Unbreakable' 'Day 22 / September 29 / Love' 'Day 23 / September 30 / Unforgettable' What was it that crept in at night and then faded away with the morning, as if it were dense fog? 'Day 24 / October 1 / Strong' 'Day 25 / October 2 / Invincible' 'Day 26 / October 3 / Sierra' 'Day 27 / October 4 / Flight' 'Day 28 / October 5 / Warrior' Galaxian will make these up in Fall Break,,, hopefully 'Day 29 / October 6 / Dance' 'Day 30 / October 7 / Night' Category:Scribble September Category:Content (Galaxian) Category:Poetry Category:Stories